


In Spite of All Terror

by Maidenjedi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4246485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shireen Baratheon escapes, and gathers companions, each seeking to survive and none able to continue alone, whether because of danger or duty.  This is the tale of how they meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Spite of All Terror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sumi/gifts).



> Season five destroyed me, and this is more or less what I would have liked in an Episode 11 if I were Queen in the North. Happy Not Prime Time!
> 
> One character here appears in the novels but not in the show, and her fate is somewhat different there than what I’ve made it out to be, as well as the fates of a few off-screen characters. There is a second who *could* exist in the ASOIAF universe but does not, I’ve just made her up for this tale. I took this liberty only to stay somewhat in the general universe. My apologies to canon-loyal book readers.

She screamed for her father, who seemed not to hear.  She screamed then for her mother, who upon hearing, ran forward only to be felled by her own previous command.

The Red Woman spoke ever louder, though Shireen could not hear the words, only the intent.

The fire would consume her, because she was a princess.

No one saw her rescuer as he approached, so taken were they by the scene before them.  Even the Red Woman, who was knocked to the ground by Ser Davos’ sword, had no time to reach out to stop him before unconsciousness took her.  Ser Davos yelled in the direction of her father, and he cut down his princess and rescued her from the flames before they leapt.

They made it out of camp together, though not so quickly that an arrow could not reach Ser Davos’ leg.  He begged her go on, and her kiss just glanced his cheek before he turned to fight. 

She ran into the woods, until her lungs burned and her legs quivered.  And then she ran further.

-

It was cold, bitterly so, especially as she was dressed thinly with only a cloak for warmth.  She thought she could build a fire, if she had to.  The thought of fire, though, kept her running.

She wasn’t sure if Ser Davos had survived.  That was the hardest part.  She slowed to take a breath, to fight tears.  He was her knight, had been for so long.  He wasn’t supposed to be in camp – he’d been given orders to go to the Wall.  How had he known to come back?  Had he suspected?

Shireen shook herself, and urged her feet forward.  She could not stand so long.  The Red Woman would have sent someone for her.

Her father might have sent someone for her.

Night had begun to set before Shireen found she could go no further.  She found a tree to climb and nestled down in branches wide enough to hide her from anyone on the ground.

Snow began to fall.

-

She woke to the sound of hooves.  Her heart in her throat, she chanced a look down.  How she had slept through their coming, she’d never know.  Below her were her father’s men, what looked like the entire army, marching with purpose, the fiery stag sigil waving on banners lowered to pass beneath the forest canopy with ease.

Were they searching for her?  Surely not; this was a column moving for war.  No one called out for her, seemed to pause to look behind thickets or boulders, dig through the snow banks. Still, if she were seen!

She cowered back against the tree, forgetting hunger and thirst in her expectation that she would be found.  She closed her eyes, a childish conviction coming over her, that if she could not see them, they would not see her.

_The Red Woman could see, though.  In her fires, she could see._

There was nothing for it.  She could not move, and guarantee she would be caught and fed to the Red God.  She would have to hide here, and pray to the Seven for their protection.  The Stranger could hide her, if it was his will.  The Mother could grant her absolution and mercy for whatever sin lay in defying her father.

Her father.

Her ears tingled.  She knew the sound of his armor moving against his saddle. 

She risked another look down. 

King Stannis Baratheon passed beneath his daughter’s perch, head held high and defiant as it always was.  Behind him was the Red Woman.  Not marching in step, her horse was two or three lengths back, and between them…

Nothing. Where Ser Davos would have marched, there was empty space, and it seemed to stretch for miles.  Shireen’s heart sank and she bit her lips till they bled to keep from crying out.  He was either dead or a prisoner, and she prayed to all the Seven that he might yet live.

They none of them looked up, and all marched on.  It was a solemn procession, and Shireen was struck by the determined, and resigned, looks on the faces of the soldiers as they passed. She looked for signs her mother could be with them, but the royal caravan was nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps the camp was still set, or her father had sent her mother to the Wall with an escort.  Perhaps, though she hardly dare hope, Ser Davos was with her mother.

Her father did not bring her mother with him, Shireen realized, because they marched for Winterfell, and battle.

-

Some time after the army passed, Shireen dared to slip from her sanctuary in search of food.  Nothing lived in this wood that she could easily eat.  She melted snow in her hands and drank the remaining water as best she could.  She would not thirst in these woods, though she may yet starve or die of cold.

For it was terribly, terribly cold.  She was dressed warmly, or as warmly as a southron princess who had been on her way to the pyre could be.  Her hands had stopped shaking, but they were white and stiff.

Winter is coming, the words of House Stark, Wardens of the North.  Shireen had never seen a winter, though she had read about them.  She was a summer child, and she dreamt of it now.  Summer, fish leaping in the cove, and singing.

She did not wake when daylight came.

-

“What is that?”

“A person.  A little girl!”

“Is it…is it Arya Stark?”

“Podrick, leaving aside that we last saw her far south of here, why would Arya Stark wear a cloak pinned with the sigil of House Baratheon?”

“I…a disguise, milady.”

A huff of disgust.

“This must be Stannis’ daughter,” the woman murmured.  “Help me, Podrick, she’s frozen.  We must get her warm.”

Shireen was lifted to what seemed a great height, and though she sank quickly back into sleep, she was conscious of cold armor, and the strange voices exchanging words of concern and wonder.

-

When she woke again, she could not tell the time of day, and later learned she had slept through another night complete.   She was wrapped in skins that were not aged, and she could smell blood.  There was a fire – and she recoiled, jumping up despite her exhaustion.

“No, no!  Put it out, put it out!”

A young man caught her from behind, presumably the “Podrick” she’d heard speaking before.  She had assumed it a dream.  Yet there was a woman, a tall, ungainly, ugly woman, coming toward her now with outstretched hands.

“The fire!”

“Princess, it is alright.  The fire is for warmth, no more. We are not your enemies.”

“I don’t know you!”

Podrick let go, and Shireen fell to the ground amidst the skins and her cloak.  The cold came back to her now, and she shook.  “Are you…did my father send you?” she said softly, and sighed heavily.  “No, I would know of a woman knight.  I don’t know you,” she repeated.

Brienne frowned but held out her hands, palms up. “I know.  I will explain.  You must eat, though.  Podrick…”

“Yes, milady.”  Podrick went to the fire and prepared a bowl of broth.  “Hope you like rabbit, milady,” he said, handing Shireen the bowl.

Shireen took it, but hesitated.  “Your names, please.  I do not know where I am, or….”

“Brienne of Tarth.  And this is my…this is Podrick Payne.”

“Are you a knight?”  Shireen blew on a spoonful of the broth and sipped.

“No.”

The broth was working well to warm her up, and Shireen noticed she had stopped shaking with cold.  She was still wary, but curiosity won over as she tried to recall House Tarth from her years of learning.  “Who is it you serve? I know Tarth from…I know it.”

At this Brienne straightened her back and her hand went to her sword, not in defense, but almost gently.  It struck Shireen as sad, the way Brienne moved and the look now on her face.  She did not answer Shireen, but queried in response.

“You are Shireen Baratheon, are you not?”

“I am.”  There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“How came you to be separated from your father’s army?  How did you come to be with the army at all?”  This last was asked with a note of incredulity.  Brienne took her hand from her sword hilt and held out her hands palms up.  “I ask only from curiosity.”

Shireen weighed her options.  She did not know Brienne of Tarth, and it came to her that she knew Tarth to be loyal to her uncle before his death.  Payne, however, was a name well known to be associated with the Lannisters.  Did any of it matter?  If they were loyal to her father, they would not be here and Shireen would likely have succumbed to the fire by now.  If they were loyal to the Lannisters, they would march her south to King’s Landing, and she’d end up a hostage or with her head on a spike.

The odds either way were staggeringly against her.

So she told her tale, leaving out nothing.  When she was through, Brienne of Tarth took her own blanket and put it around Shireen's shoulders.

"You are safe with us."

-

Long after Shireen had fallen back into an uneasy sleep by the fire, and Podrick had been talked out of taking the first watch, Brienne stood on the edge of their modest camp and eyed the woods.

Here was the Princess Shireen in her care, hours after Brienne had encountered Stannis.  The gods had a sense of humor, that much was apparent.  Brienne was quite sure she did not share it.

Shireen was fortunate to be alive; either fire or ice might have been her doom.  Brienne had recognized her by her scar, and knew that once they reached civilization once more that the scar would be as detrimental to Shireen as Brienne’s height was to her.  It could probably be hidden, but even then, Shireen was young and Brienne’s mission....

Could she seriously consider continuing that now? 

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.  Brienne tightened her grip on Oathkeeper.  The horses were not stirred; it must have been quite far away.  But it was not called the wolfwood for nothing, she suspected.

She thought about Stannis and wondered if it would be prudent to reunite father and daughter.  Shireen had told a fearsome tale, one Brienne was disinclined to dismiss; she had seen what Stannis’ witch was capable of with her own eyes, after all. There had been no sign of the woman, thank the gods.  The woods were clear of other Baratheon survivors, if there were any, and the Boltons had retreated en masse once their primary duty had been dispatched.  Brienne had stopped here only because she felt confident in these truths.  Otherwise, Baratheon princess in tow or not, she and Podrick would have gone on.

It felt odd, referring to Shireen as princess.  It was a title conferred by a false claim.  Though deep down, Brienne could admit that Stannis had a claim, especially now that Renly was gone, it was something she did not voice even to herself. In any event, she was sworn to Lady Catelyn’s memory if not her person, and in turn to Jaime.  She owed nothing to the Baratheons.

It did not escape her, though, that Shireen was Renly’s niece, and could not help who her father was.

Brienne felt keenly that she was being given a duty she had never asked for, as the discarded high maidens of the Seven Kingdoms fell to her charge, one by one.  It was a miracle she hadn’t been sent to Dorne for Princess Myrcella in the bargain.

So here she was, far from Sansa and mere feet from Shireen.  Hand on Oathkeeper, Brienne stared into the dark and whispered a fresh oath.

Perhaps this was one she could keep.

-

They woke to a cold sun, a bleak promise that could not be kept.  Shireen was better, able to get up and walk unassisted, now that she had real sleep and warmth and food in her belly.  She knew she had her companions to thank for it, and thanked the Mother for sending them to her.

Podrick made a rough biscuit to split between them, from the supplies he and Brienne had brought.  It was not much, however, even to soak up the leftover broth and supplement the last of the rabbit from the night before.  Hunting was pointless, Brienne proclaimed, as she wanted to get back to their lodgings.

“Where are you going?” Shireen said, not ready to include herself in the party without a formal declaration. 

“We are staying near Winterfell, in the village.”

Shireen was not a suspicious person.  It was a weakness, she knew.  But to Winterfell?  And the Boltons?

Noticing the look on Shireen’s face, Brienne sighed.  “We are not Bolton allies, Princess.”

“I am not a princess,” Shireen said, looking down.  “I don’t want to be a princess.”  She closed her eyes and tried not to damn her father’s ambition, her mother’s compliance.  “But if you are not with the Boltons, why Winterfell?” 

Winterfell, holdfast of House Stark, was now an abomination in the hands of the Flayed Man.  Shireen shuddered, thinking of the Bolton sigil, which she never could look at in her books if the sun had set. She fingered the clasp on her cloak, tracing the fire, and wondered if House Baratheon were much better, now.

“Shireen, we are not with the Boltons, I swear it.  We go to Winterfell for another purpose,” Brienne began, picking at what remained of her food.  “I am sworn to protect the daughters of House Stark.”

Shireen looked up from her own morose reverie.  “I thought…”

“Everyone did.  Dead or well on the way, and would be, if Queen Cersei had her way.  I was sworn to Lady Catelyn before her death.”

That took Shireen a moment to digest.  She had a working knowledge of the kingdom’s tangled politics, thanks to her books, and current events, thanks to Ser Davos.  She recalled him telling her it was “no business for a princess,” but he’d told her that House Stark was all but eradicated, if their intelligence was correct.  Moreover, House Tarth had always been an ally of Storm’s End, not Winterfell.  Shireen sat puzzling, opened her mouth to question, but was cut off. 

“Lady Catelyn and I were…we witnessed King Renly’s murder.  We escaped together and I pledged to her my service.  She required one thing of me, in the end.  Bring her daughters home, she said. Now, of course…”

“There is no home for the Starks,” Shireen finished.  Brienne nodded, and stood up. 

“The only thing left is to keep the girls safe.  We do not know Arya Stark’s whereabouts, but we know the Boltons have Sansa.  We are here to keep her safe.”

She turned and told Podrick to ready the horses, and she began to pack their goods and bury the fire.  Shireen sat for a moment longer, still full of questions – how came Brienne to witness her uncle’s murder?  Wasn’t Sansa in King’s Landing? – but it didn’t take her long to decide where her own loyalty would lie for the time being.  Brienne of Tarth was a formidable ally, and Shireen needed protection as badly as anyone, with her enemy at large.  She straightened her back and with it, her resolve.  She’d been a princess, locked in a tower, taken from her home, nearly burned to death to appease a false god.  Lesser stories were oft told around campfires, she was sure.  Her story was not at an end, but oh, it would scare children, it would.

She began to hum a song, and stood to help with what she could.

The trio left for Winterfell by midmorning, Brienne riding ahead to act as scout, Shireen seated behind Podrick and wearing some of the skins in a makeshift cloak to keep warm.

-

It was not long before they encountered a Bolton rider.

Brienne heard him before they saw him, and they were able to hold and hide in a thick crop of pine trees.  He was alone, likely a scout for a larger party.  She considered her options.  He would be easy to ride down, but killing him would present a host of other problems.  At present, she did not believe her presence known to Lord Bolton or his bastard, and she wasn’t keen to awaken their interest.

On the other hand, why was there a Bolton scout in the woods at all?  To check for lingering Baratheon survivors, or was it more than that?  Perhaps Roose Bolton was more suspicious than Brienne gave him credit for.

She motioned to Podrick to keep back, and quiet the horse.  Shireen was the obliging one here; she slid from the horse noiselessly, and moved to take the reins and pet him.  It worked, so Brienne nodded and moved out to the clearing so she would see and be seen.

The rider, to her great amazement, was not a Bolton at all, or even just a man.

It was Sansa Stark, and with her, a wretch whose name Brienne did not immediately know.

She stood in shock a beat too long to move before Sansa’s eyes met hers.  Brienne did not know what she could expect on such a meeting, but Sansa’s expression was all relief, her companion’s fear. 

Brienne raised her hand in greeting and would have called out, but Sansa shook her head and moved her hands to indicate they should get clear of open space.  Brienne turned and led the way back to the thicket.  Shireen was occupied with the horse, but Podrick saw the party and his jaw dropped.

“Milady,” he started, but Brienne cut him off.

“We must move, and quickly.  Shireen, with Podrick.  Pod, take the lead.  My lady, if you and your companion do not mind, stay ahead of me.  I will protect you.”

If Brienne was at all worried about what very likely could befall this new, motley crew, her voice did not betray it.  Sansa was arguably the most composed of them all, her face giving nothing away as she assented to Brienne’s plan and they all moved back in the direction from which Brienne had led her party that morning. 

They moved at a quick pace, Brienne anxious for sounds of pursuit, and they made considerable distance before needing to stop for the night.

-

Shireen pulled her hood over her face.  The man – Sansa called him Theon, with great vehemence in her tone whenever she spoke it – kept stealing glances at her scar.  She was not used to this, strangers and questions.  It had been a trying day, not least because now they were in danger on two fronts, and they had no supplies.  The horse Sansa and Theon rode on had been a straggler, likely lost in the battle, which they were fortunate to find after a sleepless night in the woods.  Sansa had described their escape from Winterfell, as Brienne listened with horror as Theon interjected with hints as to what precipitated it.  No one spoke it all aloud, with Shireen present, and she knew there were things they wished to protect her from, as she was the child in the mix. 

Not that she felt very much like a child just now.

Podrick had gone into the woods to find a supper for them, while Sansa asked Theon to look for wood for a fire.  He complied, seemingly grateful for a task.  Brienne was fortifying their camp, such as it was.  Sansa came and sat with Shireen.

“So you are Shireen Baratheon,” she said quietly.

Shireen nodded.  “And you are Sansa Stark.”

“Strange we never had occasion to meet before.”

“Not so strange.  My father…we never left Storm’s End in my life, until very recently.  He did not like to shirk his duty, he always said when I asked.”

“Neither did mine.  ‘Tis what drove us south, and to his fate.  And mine, it seems.”

They sat quietly for a moment, daughters remembering their fathers, each with her own demons on that score. 

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, quite warm.  This weather…this is my home.  I imagine for you it must seem desolate.”

“Cold.  It’s cold.  But I don’t mind it, too much.  Better to be out here, than back there.”

“Yes.”  Sansa watched the fire, and Shireen watched Sansa. She couldn’t be too much older than Shireen herself, but to look in her eyes was not unlike looking into Ser Davos’, after his return from the Blackwater.  Shireen felt fortunate, in that moment, not to have suffered all that Sansa Stark must have done.  She may have been a princess locked in a tower, but until that last morning, she had been protected, and loved.

Sansa broke her reverie and offered Shireen a small smile, seemingly aware of the deeper thoughts that had intruded.  “Don’t trouble yourself too much on my account, Shireen. We have nothing to do but look ahead, and hope.”

“Do you, then?  Hope?”

“Of course. My younger brothers may yet be alive. And Arya…I feel like I would know if she were truly dead.  There is something of her spirit yet in the air, especially here.”

“Were you close?  I never had a sister.”

“We were not.  Arya…we were…we are so different. She is impetuous and wild, never able to sit still at anything. She liked playing with the boys, our brothers, or any boys who would let her in their company, really.  I…I much preferred the quiet of indoors, sewing or playing music,” said Sansa, now looking back in the fire, a sad look masking her features. “I wanted to be…I wanted to be a princess.  I wanted to be the queen, truth be told.”

Shireen put a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “I was a princess, and I never wanted it. Trust me, it wasn’t like any song I ever heard.”

“No,” said Sansa, “the songs are quite wrong.  Or they tell tales meant to soothe the minds of nervous maids. Either way, I believed them.”  She shrugged, keeping her gaze on the flames.

Shireen changed the subject.  “What now, do you think?”

“Keep going,” was the reply, threaded with steel.  “What choice is there? Behind us is misery. It can only get better from here.”  Sansa’s optimism was not snuffed out, even if it was dimmed.

“We each of us have enemies out there.  The war isn’t over.”

“No, no it is not.  And winter…” Sansa twisted her mouth in a wry shadow of a smile.  “I was going to say that winter is coming. How stupid of me.”

Shireen shrugged and rubbed her hands together for warmth.  “Not stupid. Winter may already be here, but we don’t know what fate lies ahead, for good or ill.”

Sansa’s face darkened as she agreed.  She knew it all too well.

-

Once the small company was fed and watered, Brienne and Podrick worked out a watch.  Brienne wished they could ask Theon for his help with this, but he was only useful to Sansa, hardly seeming to hear the others.  Whatever had happened to him had been horrifying, Brienne realized, though it was no good knowing it now. She could only hope he would improve.

Podrick was to take the first watch, and as he set himself up with weapons at the ready, Brienne stood by.

“Are we really going to do this, milady?”

She frowned.  “I don’t believe we have a choice, Podrick.”

He nodded, looking down. 

“We cannot head back toward Winterfell,” she said decidedly. “We will make our way north.”

Podrick was wide-eyed, and Brienne knew he was as unsure about that as she was.  Her knowledge of the geography this far north was spotty at best.  She was sure she could get through the snow and the cold – if she were alone. 

She shivered and bid Podrick good night, admonished him to wake her when the moon set.  He swore it as solemnly as a vow in a sept.

Around the dying campfire, Sansa and Shireen lay whispering, each fading off to sleep to the pleasant sound of a friendly female voice.  Theon sat crosslegged, staring into the fire.  As Brienne made her way to settle in on the other side of the girls, Theon stopped her, grabbing her hand.

“Milady.  If Ramsay….”

Brienne shook him off.  “No.  We will not invite trouble, Theon Greyjoy.  Bite your tongue and try to get some sleep.  We have a long day ahead, possibly more.”

He did not cower, as she expected.  Instead he stood, and looked down at Sansa, then up at Brienne.  When he spoke, his voice was low, and shook only a little.

“House Bolton does not control Deepwood Motte.  I heard Lord Bolton say so the other day.  He had intended to send Ramsay to…to run off whatever Iron Born still held it, if they do at all.  They were unsure, but then the snows, and Stannis. They chose not to act.  Milady, when he.”  He paused, and drew in a shaky breath. “When Ramsay discovers we are missing, when he discovers  _she_  is missing, he may decide the snow is worth the risk.”

Brienne took this in and looked down at the girls herself.  They were sleeping now, and she waved at Theon to follow her a little further away.  No use in disturbing them.  “Deepwood Motte, that’s House Glover, am I correct?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Lord Glover marched south with Robb Stark.”

“Yes, milady.”

“Do you believe it possible that Lord Glover lives?  That he drove off the Iron Born himself?”

“Possible.  Not likely.  And Lord Bolton…”

“Yes.”  Brienne sighed heavily.  They didn’t have much choice.  Villages were scarce between Winterfell and Deepwood Motte, and by this time most of the inhabitants were likely to have sought winter shelter in the great keeps anyway.  They had no supplies and so could not truly hope to reach the Wall unaided.  They were likely to reach shelter before getting to the coast, and any castellans in the wolfwood ahead would be loyal Northerners.

She hoped.

“We will ride for Deepwood Motte.”

She was quite decided, and Theon had nothing to offer that could truly dissuade her.  If Ramsay Snow were so keen to keep his bride as to waste resources in a chase, he would catch up with them long before.  As far as Brienne was concerned, they had the night. 

She told Theon to remain and went to fetch a weapon.  She handed it to Theon.

“Be ready, Lord Greyjoy.”

His face contorted and in the dying firelight, he looked akin to a demon.

-

As promised, they rode hard the following morning, Shireen with Podrick in the lead, Sansa with Theon, and Brienne bringing up the rear.  Shireen was nervous to head up their procession in this way, but Brienne had presented her case for Deepwood Motte with the information that House Glover was loyal to Sansa's family, and by extension anyone under Sansa's protection should be welcome.   

Shireen kept her worries to herself, feeling confident that Brienne would have considered the danger, and that Sansa was consumed with her own trepidation and thoughts. 

They rested little through the day, stopping only long enough to water the horses when possible.  They had no food left to speak of, following their scant breakfast.  Shireen had prayed to the Mother to provide, and she had enough faith left to believe they may yet find something. 

She hoped it was soon.

The day wore on, and the travelers talked little, conscious of dangers that may yet lie in the woods, or be on their heels.  Shireen hummed for awhile, just to break up the monotony, and Podrick asked her what it was she kept singing.

“A song from my childhood,” she said, automatically, then laughed. “As if that were so very long ago.  My father had a fool in his household at Storm’s End, when I was small.  He sang nonsense songs like this one.”

Podrick hummed back a few lines.  “It’s familiar.  A common tune. Though I don’t know the words you use, they are strange.”

“A folk tune, then,” she replied, amused.  “How interesting. Not that I would have ever known that, had I not met you.  My world has always been rather small.”

“I wish mine had been.”

“Why would you wish that?” she replied, aghast. “I want to see the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, and beyond.”

“Beyond, as you say, may hold wonders. The Seven Kingdoms, though, hold nothing of mystery or magic any longer.”

Shireen was about to reply when Brienne rode up on their right and reached over, pulling their horse up short.  “Shh!” she said, in a low voice.  Sansa and Theon came up on their left.

Up ahead, still too far for anyone who wasn’t looking hard to have seen them coming, lay what appeared to be a small village.  Dusk was close; the woods were already darkening around them.  Brienne motioned for them all to keep quiet. 

It took several minutes, but finally they could discern light and smoke, meaning somewhere there was a fire.  They rode on, now with Brienne in the lead, and she had Sansa and Theon hold to the woods until they knew for sure what to expect.

Not more than a half dozen houses lay in sort of semicircle, their doors all facing south.  Half of these were clearly abandoned; one lay in such ruin that not more than the north wall was intact.  Two of them looked empty, though waiting for occupants, and the one furthest east, set apart from the others by maybe thirty or so extra feet, had candles lit in the front windows.  Smoke rose from the chimney.

Brienne came up to this house and dismounted.  She didn’t give any instruction, but Podrick held back, just enough to be able to turn and run if necessary.  Shireen peaked around him, trying to get a good look.

Brienne knocked on the door, one hand on her sword hilt as if resting.  It took seconds for the door to open, and a woman stood there.  She was tall, not as tall as Brienne but regal just the same, her back straight and countenance clear.  She wore black bearskin, which might have seemed odd had it not suited her so well.

“Good evening.  My companions and I are looking for a place to bed down for the night.  Do you have room for travelers such as us?”

The woman looked hard at Brienne, as if trying to place her, and then looked over at Podrick and Shireen.  Shireen hid her face against Podrick’s back, and he moved his hand to cover hers at his waist.

“Who are you?  What is your business this far north in winter, with no plan for shelter or cover?”  Her voice was low, and could easily be rendered soft and accommodating; a highborn voice.

Brienne had long ago stopped the business of lying to protect her identity.  “My name is Brienne of Tarth.  With me here is Podrick Payne, my squire, and a young lady we’ve taken under our protection.”

“Tarth?  I say again, what brings you so far north?”  The woman now sounded incredulous.

“I came here at the orders of Lady Catelyn Stark, to find and protect her daughters.”

The woman now laughed, and her face proved as fair as it seemed on first acquaintance.  “So you’re Catelyn’s sworn sword.  I’ve heard tales.  But you have come too far if you seek to protect one of her daughters.  The rumor is, Sansa Stark is at Winterfell, held by the traitor Bolton and his bastard.”  She spit into the snow.

Brienne turned and gestured to the wood, where Theon and Sansa were just out of sight. 

“She is no longer their prisoner.”

The woman’s face turned hard once more, and she stepped out into the cold, shutting the door behind her.  “Brienne of Tarth, if you are in earnest say so now.  The Starks do not have many friends left, having been so nearly exterminated, but if they have any, they reside here.  I am Lady Dacey Mormont of Bear Island.”

Brienne looked amazed, and shook her head.  She grasped her sword hilt more firmly.  “Lady Mormont rode south with Robb Stark.  She was in camp when I last heard her name spoken.”

“Aye.  Then she rode north, on hearing that Bear Island was under siege.”  She drew back the bearskin, bearing the hilt of her sword, clearly marked with the Mormont sigil.  “It was an exaggeration, as my sister had things well in hand.  I was on my way back south when word came about what happened…at the wedding.”

“How came you to be here?”

“I can tell you that story when we are warm around the fire.  Bring Lady Sansa to me.  We have plenty of room for you all to stay.”

-

Upon their introduction, Sansa held out her hand to the woman in bearskins. “Lady Sansa,” said Dacey Mormont, as she took a knee.  “Or in truth, my Queen.”

Sansa’s color rose and she begged Dacey to stand.  “I am no queen.  My brother Bran may yet live, and if so, he will take Robb’s crown.  I do not want it.”

It was Dacey’s turn to color when she was introduced to Theon Greyjoy, and she drew her sword and held it to his throat.  Sansa was the only one to move, standing in front of him.  “He is with me, Lady Mormont. He helped me escape. What they say is not true, he did not murder Bran or Rickon.”

Dacey lowered her sword but did not sheath it.  “I have other quarrels with the Greyjoys.  Their ships sailed for Deepwood Motte, but the Iron Born were not content with one great keep and moved for Bear Island.  My sister Lyra died at the hands of Iron Born men, if they can be called that.”  She spit again into the snow.  “Theon Greyjoy, I spare your life now because you serve my lady Stark.  But I know the part you played in your lord father’s latest attempt at usurpation.  You live in spite of your name.  Know that.”

Theon shook, and hung his head, murmuring to himself.  Sansa knew what he was saying – arguing with himself over his name, and swearing off the name of Greyjoy should it please his lady - and held her hand out to him.  His would be a long road, likely to end at sword point when there was no way to explain the truth.  Sansa did not pity him; he had earned this life.  But then, so had they all, in the end.

From there they moved inside, Podrick remaining to put the horses up and gather their supplies.  They all stood now in the house Dacey Mormont told them was not hers at all, but an abandoned house used by travelers in the area.  “The other houses have not been in use for some time.  I have been here for a month, waiting for my sister to join me.  We have…there have been sightings, on the isle.  It is an ill wind that blows this winter.”

She would not explain further.

“Are you alone?” Brienne asked, looking around doubtfully.  The others had begun to settle in; Brienne stood, refusing a seat, wearing her weapon.”

Dacey shook her head.  “I have a companion, my niece Lysanne.  She is out hunting.”

Brienne inclined her head and said nothing more.

Sansa felt impatient.  It was good to be under cover, but Dacey Mormont was the last person here to see Robb alive.  She wanted to talk to her, find out more about what happened.  Perhaps later.  For the moment, they were distracted as Lysanne returned, having had a successful hunt, and was brought up to speed on the visitors.  Her face lit up when she was introduced to Sansa.  “My Queen!”  She curtseyed and blushed, and did not notice the look on Sansa’s face.  Sansa did not correct her, leaving it to Dacey. 

The company enjoyed a quiet meal; Lysanne had brought back several rabbits, intending them to last against a storm, should one arise, but Dacey declared it was nothing short of a miraculous day, to have Sansa Stark back and alive.  They had plenty of provisions to keep even their new companions for several days, at least long enough to make the next plan of action.

Lysanne, it turned out, was the daughter of Lyra, the late Mormont sister.  She was of an age with Arya, realized Sansa, though it was difficult to picture Arya as old as this.  It saddened her and turned her thoughts melancholy, and she ate in silence near the fire. 

The company cleared out for sleep one by one, except for Brienne, who chose to take a watch outside.  That left Dacey near the kitchen hearth, doing the last of the clearing away and settling in for her own watch.

Sansa approached her.

“I knew you’d want to talk about it,” Dacey said, as she heard Sansa come in.  “I wish I had something to say you would want to hear.”

“My lady, you were the last person to talk to Robb that I have had the fortune to meet.  Everyone else…”

“Everyone else was slaughtered at the hand of that bastard Frey and his accomplice, Bolton.  Or it was the other way around.  I have a hard time believing Frey capable of plotting such violence independently.  He would have needed assurances, for one.”

Sansa sat down heavily.  “I was almost sure it was over.  The worst had happened.  They could not humiliate me any further, and Lord Tyrion, he was willing to take me away from there at the first opportunity.  He said as much, one night.”

“Did he…”

“No.  No, that was left for my second lord husband.”  She turned away as her face colored.

“I see,” said Dacey.  She sat down now as well, after pouring wine for them both from the small stock she’d kept close.  “Drink that.”

Sansa obliged.  It was a rough vintage, nothing like the Dornish reds favored in King’s Landing, and she made a face.

“If I have the pleasure to meet your, what did you call him, your second lord husband,” Dacey said, venom in her voice, “I shall separate him from his necessary parts.”

There was a heavy pause, and Sansa burst out in a sharp laugh.  Dacey watched her, and then laughed, too.

They kept on for a moment, then sat in silence as the fire crackled and a light snow began to fall outside.  Sansa decided to press her hostess.

“But Robb.  My mother.  Surely you can tell me…”

But Dacey shook her head.   “When I last saw your brother, he was struggling to keep order and his rule.  You must remember, his choice to break his vow to Walder Frey was doing damage long before Edmure’s wedding plans.”

“That’s just it, I don’t know.  I don’t remember.  I heard nothing but rumors or cruel jokes.  My brother may as well not have existed.  I was forced to name him traitor to save my own…” She began to cry.  “I was not brave.  I was not true.  I named him traitor.”

Dacey took Sansa’s hands in her own.  “Oh, my sweet girl.  You could not have saved him with all the rebellion in the world.”

Sansa cried for a long time, letting out every pent up anxiety and fear with it.  As she rose to go to bed, bidding Dacey good night, Dacey held on to her hand and looked up into her face.

“Do not ask me for sweet thoughts, my lady.  I have none to give.”

-

Sansa went up to the room she was sharing with Shireen and Lysanne, both of whom were sleeping.  The snow had stopped and the moon had risen, and now shone light over Shireen’s face.

Sansa was overwhelmed with the idea – Shireen, a princess, because her father was brother to the king and no more.  It was more real than anything similar she might have expected to experience when Robb was declared King in the North.

Now, though, she was going to have to experience it.  She was going to have to face it.  If her family still had friends in the North, beyond Dacey Mormont and her orphaned niece, it meant something.  The northerners had never been keen on southron rule, and now?  Sansa knew what the sentiment would be, outside the Boltons’ increasingly arthritic grasp.  Her younger brothers were presumed dead, Arya no better, and even if they lived, they were not here. 

And she was eldest, now.

The thought of the burden weighed on her, but she did not find it totally unpleasant.  She had not asked for it and her position was decidedly precarious, but it may be inescapable, now.

Sansa looked out the window, into the moonlit wolfwood. “Queen in the North,” she whispered. 

Somewhere in the night, a wolf howled in response.

-

“Deepwood Motte is a full four days’ ride from here, in good weather.  I'd call it seven days with your company and uncertain winter around you. I am not sure what you will find there, should you continue on, and I would advise seeking out the Boles or Forresters. Their houses were not decimated by the wars and we may yet have allies in the wolfwood.  Unless word reached them all of what is coming.  As I said yesterday, there were…sightings…of a dread thing on Bear Island as winter came on.  I’ve had no word from my lady sister and I fear she may be lost.”  Dacey said this all plainly, as she and Brienne sat at the table before anyone else awoke.

“I can’t think where else we could go.  Winterfell is a prison, worse.  But what are these creatures you’ve mentioned?  What is so horrid that the Mormonts would flee Bear Island?”

“Brienne of Tarth, trust me when I say, even Lord Selwyn would give up the Sapphire Isle if what I have seen ever befalls your home.”

“I…”

“Wights,” Dacey whispered.  “The Night’s Watch call them wights.  My uncle, the Lord Commander, sent word, but almost too late.  How they reached the island we do not know.  They were burned, and I went ahead while Alysane prepared to move the household.  She may have gone as far as Deepwood Motte and been captured or held, I don’t know.  But she may have been felled by these creatures.  I dare not speak of them after dark, Brienne.  Or to the children.”

Brienne nodded, and lost herself in thought for a moment.  Podrick told her there were rumors of dragons in the east.  She herself had seen blood magic at work; so had Shireen.  These were terrible times to live in, it was true.

But no more terrible than any that had come before.

She straightened up and looked Dacey Mormont in the eye.  Dacey had delicate features, but her hands were battle-worn and her demeanor, while gentle, had a rough edge to it.  She carried a sword.  She knew the lay of the land, quite literally.  Most importantly, she was a clear ally.

“Come with us.  We will still head for Deepwood.  If it is in enemy hands, we will go around, and attempt to sail out on our own.  If it isn’t, we’ll seek help. Surely there are other friends of the Starks left.”

Dacey looked at Brienne appraisingly.  “Alright.  Lysanne and I will join you.  We should make for the Bole keep first, see if there is word of my sister’s fate and prepare provisions. That's two days from here easily.”

The corner of Brienne’s mouth tugged upward.  She was pleased.  There was one more matter, though.  “What of my other charge?”

“You mean the Baratheon girl?”

Brienne narrowed her eyes.

“Her scars are not unknown, Brienne.  Besides, her father’s army was in country, and the war is not over.  I knew it was her last night. How did she come to be in your company?”

“Podrick and I came across her, nearly dehydrated and starved, some five days past or so.  She told us a tale that you might want to hear from her own lips.”

“Yours will suffice.  It isn’t every day one runs across stranded princesses in the wolfwood.”

“No, it isn’t.  You’ve heard tell that Stannis Baratheon keeps a Red Priestess in his counsel?”

“Aye.  I found it difficult to believe.”

“Believe it.  I’ve seen her magic myself,” Brienne said.  “She believes, and has convinced Stannis to believe, that he is Azor Ahai reincarnate, according to Shireen. She was in the act of burning Shireen at the stake as a blood sacrifice.”

Dacey covered her mouth and looked out the window.  “The old gods save us.  What more can befall these girls?”

“Shireen escaped with the help of her father’s Hand, Davos Seaworth.  What happened to him Shireen doesn’t know, but she managed to evade capture.”

“What of Stannis?”

“He rode into battle at Winterfell,” Brienne replied, and she drank from the cup before her.  “He lives.”

“Father and daughter are not to be reunited, then.” Dacey watched Brienne closely.  There was a story there, but it would keep.  “Does she know?”

“I do.”

They both turned.  Shireen came into the room then, her face belying no distress.  She came and sat beside Brienne.

“How long were you standing there?” asked Dacey.

“For awhile.  Don’t feel you have to keep things quiet for my sake, Lady Mormont.  I was at the Wall with my father.  I know what keeps the Night’s Watch on edge.”

Dacey sat back and crossed her arms.  “Alright then.  You know the stakes.  I will say, I never thought to look for strength in a southron princess.”

Shireen shrugged.  “I’m hardly a princess these days, my lady.”

-

They stayed two more nights at the house in the wolfwood.

It proved a dangerous gamble.

-

On the morning of the third day, Lysanne and Podrick came in from chopping wood, short of breath.  Podrick moved straight to their stash of weapons and grabbed his axe, while Lysanne roused the others.

“My lady Brienne!” she shouted.  “They are come!  Boltons!”

There was brief stunned silence, then quick action.  Oathkeeper rarely left Brienne’s waist, and she went for it now, prepared as she was every day.  Dacey Mormont was likewise prepared and drew her sword.  Podrick came in and handed long knives to the girls, though Lysanne moved to grab her own sword, momentarily stashed in the corner.

Theon refused a weapon, but picked up the nearest of the butcher knives, and his knuckles turned white immediately. 

“How far?”

“They are in the wood, surrounding the houses.”

“Did they see you?”

“I believe so, my lady.”

“REEK!” came a shout from outside.  “I KNOW YOU ARE HERE!”

Theon backed into a corner, and Sansa went to him.

“How many, Podrick?”

“A dozen.”

Brienne exchanged a look with Dacey.  They alone were in fighting condition, and Dacey wore no armor.  The Boltons would fight to kill, to get at Sansa and probably Theon, though his fate was less certain.  They needed to move, and quickly.

Dacey nodded at Brienne.  She went out and the others could hear her begin by denying knowledge of anyone in these woods save herself and Lysanne, and Ramsay’s grating voice, impatient, mocking her in his turn.

Brienne would not wait a moment more than she needed to, but she had to take care of her charges.

“Sansa, when Theon is recovered, I want you to go out the back and take my horse.  Ride to the north and you should come to the Bole keep by midday.  Shireen, hide yourself here as long as you can, and Podrick will take you the same way.  Pod…”

“Yes, my lady.  I know.”

Brienne nodded and went to join Dacey. 

Theon was close to collapse, shaking and muttering.  Sansa got him into a chair and looked up at Podrick.

“I will not go.”

“My lady…”

“No.  That is my lord husband out there,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm.  “I shall welcome him.”

She hid her knife in her cloak and walked out the door.

-

Brienne came up behind Dacey, sword drawn.  Ramsay immediately took notice.

“Oh, look.  Now we have two hulking beasts passing for women. That bearskin does you no favors, my lady Mormont.  And I am unfamiliar with your companion, but I’ll take a chance and say she is not your niece.”

“Ah, Ramsay.  So good to see you after all this time.  But what does a traitor like you do in the wolfwood?”  Dacey held her sword in one hand, casually.  She was conscious of Brienne prepared for battle behind her, her stance belligerent.  She hoped Brienne would let her goad Ramsay into a mistake before battle came.

Ramsay grinned, his lips spreading thinly over his teeth.  “This wood and all that lay beyond are my father’s to rule.  Or have you not received word of his elevation?”

“We do not recognize Lannister decrees in the North, Ramsay, or have you and your traitor father forgotten that?”

Ramsay ignored her and called out, “Reek!  Oh, my clumsy Reek, you left a trail so wide we might have come upon you sooner had I felt you worth chasing.  But it is time to come home, Reek!  Come out and bring my lady wife with you, and we’ll say no harm was done.”  He grinned sickly.  “Or no harm has yet been done.”

Brienne said, clearly and loudly, “No.”

“I did not address you, beast.”

“You refer to my lady, and you will not have her.”

“Is that so.  I don’t recall any beasts in her service, and I would know.  She is my wife, you see.”  Ramsay slid down from his horse, and unsheathed his sword.  “Your sword.  I have not seen the like. Is that Valyrian steel?”

Brienne gripped it tighter.  “This sword was forged from Lord Eddard Stark’s blade.  In the name of the true Warden of the North, I will use it now to defend his daughter.”

“I have no problem running you through to reclaim her.”  He made ready to attack.

“Wait.” 

Brienne tensed at Sansa’s voice.  Dacey now took her sword in two hands. 

“He is right, I am his.  Ramsay, I am here.  Let us go and leave these women in peace.”

Ramsay held out his arm for her to take, sword in the other hand.  “Oh, no, I don’t think we shall leave them totally alone.”

He yelled for his men to attack, and they flew from the wood.  They were unable to gain much ground before Sansa moved close to Ramsay, and pulled the knife from her cloak.  She stuck the knife in his throat and he clawed at it, stumbling backward.

His men shouted as they saw their lord fall.  Dacey took down two and Brienne a third, and they shouted nearly in unison as they ran for the others.  Lysanne came out of the house and ran to slay another man who lunged for Sansa. 

Brienne grappled with a man nearly her own size, and Dacey knocked him off, running her sword through his belly with ease.  They worked in unison, and the entire party was dispatched but one, cornered by Dacey against one of the abandoned houses.

“Listen carefully.  We will not spare your life, but I wish you to know why,” she hissed, close to his face, her sword against his throat and her free arm holding his wrists above his head.  “I am the lady Dacey Mormont, and I serve the Queen in the North.  You have threatened her grace’s life, and now you will pay with your own.”

She pinned him to the wall with her sword, and it was over.

Sansa stood over Ramsay.  Stubborn in death as in life, his last breaths hitched and he looked accusingly at her.  His mouth worked.

She thought she might say something triumphant over him, but she found she had nothing.  Behind her, Shireen and Podrick came running, and Theon stumbled after them.  Sansa stepped back and Shireen took her hand.

Theon walked up to Ramsay’s body and began to sob.  The others watched him, a mix of disgust and fascination on their faces. 

It did not last.  Theon muttered a curse, then kicked Ramsay’s face.  His stomach.  His groin.  He kicked the body for what seemed an hour before throwing up his hands and screaming.

It was a weak revenge.  But he was satisfied, and followed Sansa in to the house.

-

Later, the bodies were moved into one of the empty ruins.  Dacey stated that she intended to burn it and the Bolton party to ash before they left.  And leave they must.  “Roose Bolton will come for his son.  We cannot linger.”

Brienne agreed.  “We will move out in the morning.  Podrick, go with Lysanne, and hunt until your bags are full.  Let us not leave here unprepared.”

Theon had collapsed in bed not long after the melee.  Shireen and Sansa were in the kitchen, and Sansa was showing Shireen how to make a quick bread.  They would have that as their supper with whatever the others hunted up.

Shireen sang her song, and Sansa, for the first time since that night in the godswood at Winterfell, felt like she could join in.  They worked quickly, Shireen a fast learner and Sansa surprised she even remembered how to do this. 

“So you are no longer Lady Bolton.”

Sansa offered a wry smile in response.  “If I ever was.  I was already married, though it seems that my lord husband could be dead.”

“You were married before?  How did that come to be?”

“The Lannisters married me to the…to Lord Tyrion.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was accused of murdering King Joffrey.  I escaped that same night.  I haven’t had any word, though Lord Baelish believed Tyrion died.  It was the only way to secure Lord Bolton’s agreement that I should marry his son.”

Shireen sighed in amazement.  “What good is being a noblewoman, anyway?  Where has it gotten us?  Nearly burned alive and married off to the nearest warm body with a title.”

Sansa knew she could not confide the worst to Shireen, who was yet innocent. It would be cruel to expose her to that horror, though no one had shown Sansa the same courtesy in years.  At the same time, she felt like she had found a kindred spirit, not unlike when she’d enjoyed Margaery’s company in the Red Keep.

And for the first time in so long, Sansa felt like an older sister.

Tears slipped down her face, and Shireen squeezed her hand.

-

The company made it to Deepwood Motte, after finding House Bole decimated and joining up with Ser Rodrick Forrester as he abandoned his keep at Ironrath.  Lady Sybelle Glover granted them asylum at Deepwood, until Alysane Mormont’s arrival.  As many as could fit in the small fleet of ships not destroyed by the Greyjoys in the War of the Five Kings fled the North by water.

But that was not the tale Maester Samwell Tarly sought, in the second year of the reign of the Queen in the North.  It was well-known, how the Others took the better part of the North, while the great families fled with all they had before turning and fighting alongside the Dragon Queen.  The Maester - who had not been so, then - knew all of that and had many accounts in his growing library.  

What had not previously been accounted for, he had now in full.

Lady Baratheon, the former Princess Shireen, now Hand of the Queen in the North, appraised the Maester from her seat by the fire.  The greyscale scars had not mellowed with age, but they gave her plain face character.  Anyone watching her knew she was a person to be reckoned with.

"I thank you for taking the time to listen to my tale, Maester Tarly."

"My pleasure, of course, my lady Hand.  I want our history to be complete, and yours is a story that deserves to be heard."

She stood and went to the window.

"We all have stories that deserve to be heard, Maester Tarly.  Just make sure you tell it true."  She sighed and stood resolute, lost now in memory.

He assented quietly, and gathering his things, left her to her thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a quote by Winston Churchill. "Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival."


End file.
